Teenage Wasteland
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: John Watson hates everything about his new school. Except perhaps Sherlock Holmes. Teen!lock AU, set to the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Warnings: References to past child abuse.
1. Holding Hands

John hated this school. He hated his mum for making them move. He hated his dad for being so deep in the drink that mum had left him. He hated his sister for her incessant partying and rebellion, making every teacher and wronged student glare at him. But mostly, he hated himself for not fitting in properly, for sticking out like a sore thumb. He'd tried to join clubs and sports teams, but it just hadn't worked out. Nobody wanted a boy with a chronic limp on their team, regardless of how he'd gotten it.

Mike was his only friend, really. They'd met in the advanced anatomy course, bonding over their shared dream of becoming doctors. Mike's girlfriend, Mary, was also nice enough, but not exactly a close friend. Harry had hit on her too many times for the poor girl to be completely comfortable around her twin. Because of conflicting schedules, though, John was left on his own for lunch. Anymore, he just found an empty classroom and ate there. The library was too busy, the lunchroom too crowded, and the bathroom... Well, John wasn't that desperate. Yet.

So it happened that he was sitting alone in the biology lab when a boy from his year swept in and sat across from him at the lab table. "I need you to hold my hand and look right at my eyes, and don't ask questions, they're tedious. Just try not to look uncomfortable," the boy ordered, grabbing John's hand and holding it. A moment later, the star rugby player burst into the room, a tiny blond girl clutching at him desperately. The couple didn't immediately notice them, too busy snogging against the wall, but when John coughed pointedly, they sprang apart. John could now see that the small girl was, in fact, Mary. The rugby player ran out and she blushed scarlet.

"I didn't know you were gay!" Mary burst out, obviously trying to cover for herself. John stood calmly, releasing the boy's hand.

"I didn't know you were a cheater," John replied smoothly, and the boy across from him smirked a bit. Mary spluttered for a moment, but recovered quickly.

"I won't tell if you won't," she offered conspiratorially. John scoffed, and the boy across from him spoke.

"But I will. I had hoped to catch Dimmock with his dealer, but Mike has been a friend to me, and do not doubt that I will happily inform him of your dalliance." The boy was posh, his voice abnormally deep for their age, and he spoke as if from a different era. Mary scowled, and stormed out. John sat down, abruptly tired

The boy turned to him. "Thank you for that. I've been trying to catch Dimmock at it for weeks, now I've got something to hold over him," the boy said, moving to rise.

"Are you really trying to catch a drug dealer?" The words exploded from John's mouth. The other boy froze, then sank cautiously back into his seat with a nod. "How do you know Dimmock's involved?"

"The same way I know you're a senior, working part time at a nursing home to help pay the bills at home, which is inhabited by your twin brother who recently suffered a break up and your mother, recently divorced from an abusive father who gave you that limp you try to hide, which is in fact primarily psychosomatic," the boy rattled off quickly, as if it were a shopping list he'd memorized.

"Amazing," John said. "How did you know all that?"

Now the boy looked less wary, more at ease. "You've got financial aide applications in your bag, which you can only fill out in your final year. Your shirt is stained with a cleaning product used in hospitals and nursing homes and as no hospital worth its malpractice lawyer would hire an underage boy, it must be a nursing home. The job and aide combined mean tough finances at home, this usually results from a divorce. You're new here, so recent divorce. Your wallet says _To Harry, Love Clara_, clearly a gift from your brother after he and Clara broke up. But you've only filled one pocket, so you only got it recently. When I entered, you flinched at the noise and your hand flew to your leg, indicative of abuse and an injury. Statistically, men abuse more than women, so you are living with your mum and brother, not father. But when you stood, you showed no favouring of that leg, which means the injury is psychosomatic."

"Incredible," John said, and he just knew his face looked awed and ridiculous. But the boy seemed- surprised.

"That's not what people usually say," he commented.

"What do they usually say?" John asked, still impressed by this strange, dark boy.

"Piss off," the boy said, and John chuckled. A beat later, the boy joined in.

"I'm John, by the way, John Watson, and you got it wrong," John said with a grin, holding out his hand. The boy took it with a superior smile.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and I assure you, I did not."

"Harry," John said with a grin, "is my twin sister."

Sherlock's face fell almost comically. He groaned in annoyance. "There's always _something_!" he proclaimed. The bell rang, signaling the end of this lunch shift, and Sherlock leapt up. "Excuse me, I've got a drug dealer to catch," he said, starting to sweep out before pausing.

"You're clever," he stated. "Have to be, to take those classes," here he gestured to John's books spread over the table, his wallet to the side of them. "Seen some danger with that father, I assume?"

"Enough to last a life time," John answered carefully, packing up his things.

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock offered.

"Oh god yes."


	2. Cuddling

Sherlock swirled out of the lab with John hot on his heels. As they walked quickly, Sherlock explained his plan. "Dimmock has study hall this period, and as he was occupied during lunch, he will certainly be completing his transaction this period. There aren't any security cameras in this building, but most of the school is occupied during the day, so where would Dimmock go to be alone?" He didn't seem to want an answer, but John gave him one anyway.

"The maths corridor," John suggested. Sherlock froze in step, turning with surprise etched across his face. "The teachers all go out for lunch together on Thursdays, I heard them discussing it. And the students never go down there to eat, there aren't any trash cans or lights other than the rooms, and those are locked."

"Oh, you, that is- Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands sharply like a child and attracting the stares of a few students in the hallway. He started to run with John by his side, racing towards the maths hall. They skidded to a stop immediately upon turning the corner and catching sight of a smaller brunette boy slipping a small baggie filled with white powder to Dimmock.

"Sebastian Wilkes," Sherlock said coolly. "I knew you were involved in this somehow." The smaller boy, Sebastian, whirled and started to run. Sherlock immediately knocked Dimmock to the ground, pinning him effectively, and then he shouted, "John, catch him!" and pointed after the brunette who was sprinting away from them. John took off, catching him up easily and tackling him to the ground, right at the feet of the vice principal.

"John Watson!" Ms. Donovan shouted. "What do you think you're doing?" John tried to sit up while still holding the struggling boy down.

"Well, Ms. Donovan-" John began, but a posh voice interrupted him.

"Check Seb's pockets," the voice drawled. John looked behind him to see Sherlock leaning against the wall, his designer clothes making a crisp contrast to the age-stained cinderblock behind him. Beside the boy was Principal Lestrade, who was holding Dimmock firmly by the upper arm. "You'll find at least a dozen baggies of cocaine, prepared for distribution. John was assisting me in his apprehension. Come on, John, things to do," Sherlock said, spinning on his heel and flashing a smile to fair-sized group of students that had formed to surround the spectacle. It didn't sit right on his face, it seemed forced and sat awkwardly on his lips as he stepped forward. The group parted like the Red Sea as Sherlock walked through and remained open so John could follow once he'd picked himself up.

After they'd rounded a few corners, they dissolved into adrenaline-fuelled laughter, leaning against the wall in abandon as they laughed, John's hands on his knees and Sherlock's head tossed back against the wall. John took the moment to take in this strange boy. His clothes were expensive, but subtly so; an auberigne dress shirt and plain black slacks, perhaps a bit smart for school, but Sherlock managed to pull it off. His hair was the only thing about him that didn't seem perfectly put together, the riotous black curls fell messily into his indeterminately grey eyes, making him look young and carefree as he laughed, high cheekbones blushing lightly.

Their laughter petered out comfortably, leaving them with heaving chests and John with a vague confusion as to why they were laughing in the first place. Sherlock turned to John with a large grin, this one feeling much more genuine. "Care to skip the rest of today?" he offered.

"Lead the way," John replied. Sherlock led them out a side exit and down the block to an Italian restaurant, where the owner greeted Sherlock as an old friend, rather than a delinquent teenager.

"I helped Angelo with a staffing issue he was having," Sherlock explained as the man led them to the only open booth in the building. It was a lone bench, facing the window, which would force them to sit nearly thigh to thigh.

"He helped me catch the punk who was stealing from our night deposit," Angelo clarified, placing a lit candle on the table and shooting John a broad wink. John spluttered for a moment but Sherlock seemed to not care, so his protests subsided as they settled in to the seat. Once they'd placed their orders, Sherlock casually slung his arm over John's shoulder. John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock shrugged, as if to say _my arms are long, what do you want me to do?_ John allowed it. Frankly, Sherlock was rather attractive, and John certainly wasn't opposed to a little… exploration.

When their food arrived, John was leaning comfortably leaning into Sherlock's side, enjoying the warmth the slender boy provided as they ate. He'd stuck to what he'd known, ordering a penne pasta with alfredo sauce. Sherlock had ordered some type of soup, which he hardly touched while John ate. Once their food was done, Sherlock rose, giving Angelo a wave as they left.

"Let's head back to my place, Mycroft is out, and we've got a rather remarkable theatre system," Sherlock said, waving down a taxi effortlessly. John grinned and slid into the cab. Perhaps things were looking up.


	3. Watching a Movie

Sherlock's house was massive. In a city where most everyone had a flat, his family owned the entire dammed building. John was overawed, but Sherlock only waved a hand vaguely, giving a cursory tour as they climbed to the second story.

"Kitchen, parlor, office, library," Sherlock indicated as they passed each door. Once the stairs had been mounted they took the second door, which opened into the most professional looking thatre space John had ever seen, outside a cinema. Plush red velvet seats were set in three rows of four, facing a wall made up entirely of a screen. A projector was positioned in the back wall, above a popcorn machine.

"Select a movie, I'm going to start the popcorn," Sherlock said, pointing to a cabinet against the far wall. John crossed the room and opened it, surprised when he saw every genre imaginable there. At first he considered impressing Sherlock with a foreign film, but eventually his own tastes won out, and he pulled out the newest Star Trek.

He waved the title at Sherlock, who plucked the case from his hands and scaled the back row of seats to put it into the projector. By the time he'd clambered down and gotten the movie started, the popcorn was finished. John grabbed the bowl for him and settled comfortably down into the front row of seats. Sherlock sat beside him, flipping up the arm rest that separated them so he could once more wrap an arm around John.

John smiled, curled a bit closer, and enjoyed the striking similarities between Sherlock and Spock.


	4. On a Date

That Saturday, John was in the middle of repairing his bicycle in the garage when a cab pulled up to the kerb. He glanced up, but quickly assumed it was for his mother, or perhaps a neighbor. Until the passenger window rolled down and a famili rearar voice called his name.

"John, go put on your suit, we have a job," Sherlock announced from the back. John didn't question, just stood and went inside, cleaning off bike grease as best he could before tugging on his one and only suit, straightening the tie as he slid on his shoes. Once he was presentable he headed out to the car. His mother was at work and Harry was at Clara's house, so he was good to spend his day however he wanted.

Sherlock directed the cabbie to take them to the nearest museum, and John smiled, anticipating something interesting going on there. Sherlock had commented that the police rarely listened to him, but maybe they'd realized how clever the young man was and invited them to a robbery scene.

"Nothing that interesting, John," Sherlock corrected,reading his thoughts. "Simply security for an exhibit, the curator is a friend of the family. It's going to be dull, so I'd hoped you would alleviate some of that." John nodded, wondering what type of exhibit warranted Sherlock's attention.

They arrived at the museum quickly, and Sherlock dropped an exorbitant sum of money on the cabbie before they walked together into the lobby. A harried looking man strode over to them and led Sherlock, and by extension, John, into the atrium.

"Thank you for coming, Sherlock," the man, presumably the curator, said.

"Please, Mr. Holmes. My associate, John Watson," Sherlock said smoothly, and John had to hide a very unprofessional giggle at the slight aimed at the curator. The man glared a bit, but continued in his oration.

"We're concerned about our security, we've been loaned a few extremely expensive pieces, and we fear they may be stolen," he said quickly. While he gave Sherlock the particulars of their set up, John surveyed the atrium. It was currently devoid of people, with only a few glass cases in the center of the room, with spotlights trained on the pieces within.

"Your guards," John interrupted. "Where are they?"

"We have them on ten minute circuits," the curator explained.

"We've been here nearly fifteen and haven't seen hide nor hair," John said, and Sherlock looked up with an inspired look.

"The help desk, of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing out of the atrium. John ran after him, just in time to see him accost the young woman behind the help desk.

Seven or eight loud and confusing deductions later,.Sherlock revealed the woman behind the desk was, in fact, planning a theft along with the security guards, as evidenced by her left cuticles or something equally obscure. John was too busy being amused at the entire spectacle to fully take in Sherlock's scientific points. Once the police arrived, they were told to stick around until the police could take their statements.

John knew that soon Sherlock would become bored with waiting around. In an attempt to stave that boredom off, John suggested they take in a few exhibits. Sherlock kept them entertained by deducing not only the patrons but the artists as well.

"No," John argued. "There's no way you can tell the subject is his illegitimate daughter."

"Look at the similarities in their cheekbones!" he said, pointing down the wall to the artist's self portrait. "And that eye shape is extremely rare, only passed from father to daughter."

"Now I _know_ you're taking the piss," John laughed, bumping Sherlock playfully. Sherlock finally cracked a grin.

"All right, perhaps, but she really was his daughter, look here," Sherlock said, pointing out the label beneath the portrait.

"Well, shit," John said, and Sherlock couldn't help laughing, and John couldn't keep from joining in.

That's how one of the NSY officers found them a few minutes later, pressed against the museum wall, laughing until their sides hurt.


	5. Kissing

When the Yard had released them -with no small amount of skepticism- John insisted Sherlock come over. His mother had sent a message saying she was taking a double shift and wouldn't be home until the next morning, and John knew for a fact that Harry and Clara would be indisposed for at least the rest of the night. Meaning his family wouldn't be around to embarrass him the first time he had a friend over.

Sherlock paid for the cab again, making John feel a little guilty for being so near to destitute, but Sherlock gave him a look that dared him to try and pay. John sighed, and led Sherlock inside and into the tiny sitting room.

"You hungry?" John asked, already heading to the kitchen. Sherlock followed closely, the kitchen's limited space pushing them close together as John moved around cooking.

John threw together a quick cheesy pasta dish, trying to hide from Sherlock how little food they had in the cupboards, while Sherlock observed, undoubtedly taking in every detail. John ignored the heavy gaze and doled out two plates of the noodles. Once he'd given Sherlock his plate, he led the other boy upstairs to eat in his room. Sherlock, surprisingly, devoured his serving, and insisted John eat all of his as well.

When they were well-fed, John put on some music and sat down on the edge of his bed with Sherlock next to him.

"I'm sorry, there isn't much to do here. You can head home if you like," John said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. He refused to meet Sherlock's gaze, eventually closing his eyes. Sherlock lived in such a huge place, and he clearly had food and space to spare. He'd probably prefer to be at home...

Before John's worries got out of control, he felt a light pressure against his lips. He opened his eyes with a snap, watching as Sherlock flushed lightly. "That- was a bit not good, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, but before he could run away like he so visibly wanted to John grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

"It was very good," John assured, leaning in and gently brushing his lips over Sherlock. The taller boy made a desperate sound in the back of his throat and pressed closer to John, leaning him back until Sherlock was sprawled on top of him, their lips moving in tandem.

John flicked his tongue lightly against Sherlock's mouth, coaxing it open so he could meet Sherlock's tongue in a slow dance, swirling and darting to draw those low sounds from Sherlock's chest.

After an eternity, Sherlock pulled backto look John in the eye. "I am more at home here with you then I ever was on my own."


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

"Can I stay tonight?" Sherlock asked when the clock on the wall chimed ten o'clock. John looked at him, startled. They'd been playing Cluedo on John's floor for about half an hour -an experience John was unlikely to repeat, seeing as Sherlock claimed the victim had been the killer- and John wasn't ready to take whatever they had beyond the kissing they'd done earlier. "I just don't have any desire to return to an empty house when I could stay with you instead," Sherlock explained.

John nodded. "Sure, I'll loan you something to sleep in once I'm out of the shower." Sherlock nodded as John left the room with his own clothes over his arm.

He tried not to think of Sherlock waiting just down the hall, probably spread out on the bed, filling the room with his scent. Instead, John focused on scrubbing his body under the warm water and washing his hair quickly. His showers were always quick, and this one especially so, as his desire to see Sherlock sped him up.

Less than five minutes after he left him, John returned to see Sherlock crouching on the ground in front of John's CD player, examining the various CDs John kept in an old shoe box. John smiled while Sherlock read through each album's playlist. John went through his drawers, trying to find something that would fit Sherlock's lanky form. Finally, at the back of the bottom drawer, was a pair of pajamas he'd received as a gift. They'd been too long for him, so hopefully they'd work on Sherlock.

"The shower's free if you like," John said, but Sherlock declined, he'd apparently showered that morning. "Here, these should fit." He passed the dark blue pajamas to Sherlock, who striped shamelessly and pulled on the clothes. John cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting in his seat awkwardly and praying Sherlock wouldn't notice John's suddenly-tight pajama bottoms.

Sherlock turned with a grin that said he knew precisely what John was thinking. John gave up, reclining on the bed and Sherlock curled up next to him. John had to admit, Sherlock looked pretty incredible in John's clothes. It made him feel fiercely protective, and possessive of Sherlock.

Just when John thought he was going to fall asleep, Sherlock spoke, nuzzling sleepily into John's shoulder. "You forgot to turn off the lights."


	7. Cosplaying

A shrill ringing woke John up the next morning. He rolled over with a groan, burying his face in Sherlock's back while the other boy answered his phone. Sherlock made assenting noises before terminating the call and rolling over to face John, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek before becoming all business.

"We've got another case," Sherlock said, his voice thick with sleep, and suddenly John knew why Sherlock didn't actually speak on the phone. That voice, still sleepy and scratchy, was enough to drive even the straightest of men insane with want. But instead of jumping his friend then and there, John rose from the bed and made for the loo, where he quickly took care of his morning wood while Sherlock went downstairs in search of coffee. When John was dressed and reasonably presentable he followed, hoping his mother was still asleep.

Luck was with him, because it was only Sherlock in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee and reading something on his phone intently. "Do you have any..." Sherlock paused, "superhero shirts?" John didn't respond at first out of surprise.

"Yeah, I think so, why?" John asked, pulling down two mugs for their coffee and two plates for toast.

"This case, it's at a convention of some sort. We'll blend in best if we have something to mark us as fellow fans." John nodded his understanding, putting bread into the toaster and pulling out the sugar bowl for the coffee in case Sherlock wanted it.

Once the coffee was poured -Sherlock did take sugar, John noted with pleasure- and the toast eaten, the boys discussed the case. Sherlock had been hired to catch a comic book thief. A woman who ran a rare comics stand at this convention suspected one of her employees of taking it and needed Sherlock to confirm her suspicions.

"I'm fairly certain the boy in charge of inventory did it, but I'll need to see him to be certain, and I'd appreciate your help."

How could John refuse? An hour later he and Sherlock, dressed in Captain America and Free Loki shirts respectively, were at the stand, surrounded by a sea of people in the most outrageous costumes. Everybody seemed pretty friendly, and once Sherlock saw the workers, his suspicions were confirmed. They quickly spoke to the owner, and she thanked them both and cut a check, which Sherlock pocketed without glancing at it.

Sherlock was sure to be angry that the case had been so boring, so before he started ripping poor strangers to shreds, John suggested they go to the shops and grab a few necessities to get his family through the week. Sherlock agreed a little too easily, but frankly, John didn't want to know what he was up to. Especially if it made him grin like that.


	8. Shopping

Sherlock was impossible to shop with. Either he was so entirely engrossed in the various groceries on the shelves that he had no idea where John was or he was attached to John's hip, complaining about how dull shopping was until something new on the shelves caught his eye and he darted off to examine it. After convincing him that no, John really _didn't_ need a jar of what honestly seemed to be eyeballs, John had reached the end of his patience.

"Here," John said, tearing off half the list he held in his hand and passing it to Sherlock. "Gather the cheapest types of these you can, and meet me at the register in fifteen minutes." Sherlock eyed the list as if affronted by John's neat handwriting, but flitted away without another word. The stress of satisfying his friend's curiosity removed from his mind, John let the familiar rhythm of shopping take over until his actions were completely automatic and his mind could roam. Tonight his mother would be home, but she'd be exhausted, heading straight to bed. Harry, though, would happily sit in the living room and ruin John's evening if given the chance. Sunday nights she usually stayed home, if only because she claimed hangovers made Mondays even more insufferable than usual. If John was quick, he could whip up a dinner for Harry and Mum and be upstairs or gone before they got home.

He looked up out of his thoughts to see Sherlock waiting up front by the queues, a basket held in his hand, making him look even more out of place. John walked up and joined him, placing their combined items on the conveyor belt and doing a mental tally-up of prices as he did so. John realized, with a jolt of humiliation, that he did not have enough to cover the cost of his groceries, and quietly tried to figure out which items his family could do without for another pay check. Just as he was about to tell the cashier to take out certain items, Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing him as he slid over his own credit card.

"Don't argue. You helped with two cases, you'll receive half the payments. Until that transfer occurs, I will cover your groceries," Sherlock murmured low in John's ear so no one in the queue would overhear. Part of John wanted to reject this as charity, but most of him was aware that Sherlock intended this not as pity but as a gesture between friends. Still, John had to tell himself that he would keep the receipt and repay Sherlock at some later date before he could agree and allow Sherlock to pay.

They walked home, despite Sherlock's complaints that walking was uninteresting and _pedestrian_, a joke that made John laugh, and John was looking forward to another evening alone with his friend. However, when they reached John's home, Harry was sitting in the living room, watching telly.

Perfect.


	9. Hanging Out with Friends

"'Lo, Johnny," Harry grunted from her spread-eagle position on the sofa. John gave her a small nod, hoping she was just smashed enough to not notice they had company. Unfortunately, she seemed sober, although with Harry it was difficult to tell until she reached the screaming part of her drunkenness. She sat up slowly, in the foggy manner of the perpetual partiers, before she focused her eyes on John and the slim figure behind him in the doorway. "Who's the friend?"

Before John could say anything, Sherlock swept forward, shaking her hand briskly. "Sherlock Holmes. By the way, you'd do better to take a full shower rather than just splashing on perfume. Your mum might ignore the obvious stench of marijuana but John and I can smell it from across the room, as will any copper worth his salt. Given that evidence, he'd be able to search you, and undoubtedly find the stash you've hidden in your right sneaker." Sherlock rattled off the facts quickly, looking Harry straight in the eye while still holding her hand in a pretense of greeting. John considered for a moment telling Sherlock off for being rude, but it simply felt too good to see Harry taken down a few pegs.

Harry, for her part, leveled a fierce glare at Sherlock before yanking her hand from his. "Johnny, someone called for you while you were out. Mic, Mike, something like that," Harry said as she settled back onto the couch. "Said to call him back."

John sighed. He'd been a rather bad friend to Mike recently, caught up in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. He stepped into the kitchen to give him a call where Harry couldn't hear. Sherlock started putting away the groceries –of course he'd noticed where all the food went when John had tried to hide it- while John dialed. Mike picked up a few rings in, and asked if John could come by to help him study for the chemistry exam the next week. John agreed, so long as Sherlock could come along. After all, Sherlock had probably forgotten more about chemistry than John and Mike had ever learned.  
Sherlock called a cab, insisting that it'd only aggravate John's leg to walk so far. John only gave in so they could leave quicker, since Harry was beginning to move around in the sitting room and he really didn't want to be around when she was completely sobered up. Only fifteen minutes later they were walking in the front door of Mike's flat, waving at his mum and dad in the dining room as John led Sherlock back to Mike's room.

"Thank God you're here, John, I'm completely lost on hydrogen bonds," Mike said, looking up from the desk. "And Sherlock, brilliant, I know you've got this down." John smiled a bit in greeting and Sherlock nodded his head as they settled down on the edge of the bed and in a nearby chair, respectively. At first, John was the one who did most of the talking, but soon his knowledge was depleted. Sherlock took over masterfully, giving them the basics as he stared at the wall absently. As the night went on, Sherlock migrated over to the bed and started walking the boys through the basics of chemical bonding and calculations. By the time Mrs. Stamford came in to tell John and Sherlock they needed to go home, both Mike and John could feel impending headaches from the amount of knowledge they'd had shoved in their brains over the past few hours. John stood and stretched languidly, aware of Sherlock's eyes on him as he did so. Mike noticed, but tastefully looked away with only the tiniest grin showing on his face.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I might just pass this test," Mike said with a large smile, clapping a hand on Sherlock's back. "John, you've got to bring him around more often, my grades might just pick up!" he teased, and even Sherlock offered a terse smile at that. John made a noncommittal response and the pair left Mike's flat in a comfortable silence.

As the cab Sherlock hailed pulled up to the curve, Sherlock leaned down and gave John a small kiss. "I'm afraid this is where I leave you. Mycroft texted, I'm evidently needed at St. Bart's Hospital immediately," he said softly.

"Why?" John asked. He knew St. Bart's, it was a teaching hospital only a few blocks away from Mike's. What business did Sherlock have there?

"Something to do with Mummy, I suspect. No cause for alarm, John. No need to look at me like that," Sherlock scolded playfully. He gently guided John into the cab, closing the door firmly and handing some bills to the cabbie. John frowned as the cab pulled away from the kerb, but Sherlock knew how to contact him. If something was wrong, he would know.


	10. HurtComfort

Three days later and John hadn't heard a word from Sherlock. He hadn't shown up in school, texts went unanswered, no one answered his door, and his phone went directly to voicemail. John was starting to worry, but from the attitude of everyone at school, this was hardly unusual.

"Don't worry, John," Mike assured him on the afternoon of the fourth day as John checked his phone for the thousandth time. "Sherlock has done this before, he'll be back in a few days, maybe with some bruises, spouting some insane story about criminals and intelligence."

John nodded, but he still worried quietly. That evening as he sat at home, his phone buzzed with an alert. He leapt at it, every bone in his body praying it would be Sherlock. He read the words _One new message_ and immediately his heart surged with hope. But when he saw it was an unrecognized number, his heart sank. _Get into the car. –MH_. John frowned, he didn't have a car, and he certainly knew no one with the initials MH. Except perhaps… Sherlock's mysterious older brother, his name had begun with an M. Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes. John had caught on, so when he glanced out his window and saw a black town car parked in front of his house, he threw on his worn leather jacket and sprinted to the car. The woman seated next to him gave him a nod, but refused to even look up from her phone as he peppered her with questions. Finally, John settled for silence, staring anxiously out the window of the car as London flew by. They pulled up in front of St. Bart's, and John suddenly knew exactly what was going on.

A dark form sat atop the building's ledge, staring down at the sidewalk. Somehow, John knew for a fact this figure had to be Sherlock, and before the woman next to him could say a word, he was out of the car and sprinting inside. He waved a hand at the nurse and made quickly for the stairway. For whatever reason, no one pursued him to find out why a teenage boy was running full tilt up the stairs of a hospital, and soon he was stepping out onto the roof. The sudden, cool wind caught him off guard, but once he'd steadied he ran to where he'd seen the figure sitting.

As he got closer, he saw that his suspicions had been correct. Sherlock sat on the ledge, his legs dangling over the side with his large black coat wrapped tight around him. When John called out to him, he didn't even move. The only way John knew he was alive was the loud, shaking breaths he could hear even over the breeze. John climbed on next to him, letting his legs hang over the street below. This close, he could see that Sherlock was shaking slightly. He looked peaked, his skin paler than usual, and his eyes hollow to look at. All in all, it didn't seem like he'd been eating at all since John last saw him.

"Sherlock-" John began, but realized that if Sherlock wanted to talk, he would have done so the moment John arrived. Instead of speaking more, he wrapped his arms snuggly about Sherlock's quivering form, and held on tight as Sherlock let out a low sob. Soon, Sherlock's shaking escalated to such a point that John had to slowly guide him off the ledge and onto the safety of the rooftop. Sherlock knelt like his legs couldn't hold him and John went down with him until they were pooled on the roof, and John realized Sherlock was holding onto John just as hard as he was holding onto Sherlock.

When his shaking had slowed to one every few minutes and his sobs had quieted to the occasional sniffle, John pulled back just enough to look Sherlock in the face. He pushed some the mussed curls out of the way, and kept his hand there, smoothing the hair down gently the way his mother used to when he was small and would wake from nightmares costarring the boogeyman and his own father. Now Sherlock was the one looking like a terrified child, lost and adrift. "What happened," John said quietly, careful to make it sound not like a question, but a gentle request as he rested their foreheads together.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, and began to speak quietly, under the wind. His voice was low and his breath warm in John's ear, but his words were chilling. "My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was seven. Since then she's been in and out of chemotherapy, and I've studied everything possible about chemistry and the human body. A few months ago the doctors talked to her and explained that she'd gotten worse. The tumors had spread to her lungs and they were too large to safely remove. There was nothing more they could do." John tightened his grip on Sherlock, sensing where this story was headed but silently hoping for Sherlock's sake it wasn't going where he suspected. When Sherlock's breathing hitched on a sob, however, he knew it was. "When I left you in the cab… it was because she was dying. She died a few hours ago." And the tears again wracked his body, making John cling to him and stroke his hair while he whispered useless apologies and nonsense words of comfort. He eventually folded Sherlock into his lap, holding the boy close until his tears finally dried. Sherlock curled close to John. "Take me home, John," Sherlock said in a small voice, and John knew he didn't mean the large empty house he shared with Mycroft, but John's own bedroom with the Cluedo board still spread out on the floor where they'd left it.

John nodded, and helped him up. They walked down to the nearest elevator, where Sherlock leaned against John almost entirely for support until they reached the lobby. Once there, Sherlock drew on some unknown source of strength and put up his chilly front as they left the elevator. On the other side of the lobby, between themselves and the exit, stood a young man in his mid-twenties wearing a high-quality suit and leaning upon an umbrella. When the man caught sight of Sherlock he strode up to the pair quickly.

"Thank you for taking care of my brother," he said to John, revealing himself as Mycroft, the absent sibling. "I'll take him home now." John instantly disliked this man and his condescending attitude, and especially the patronizing way he smiled down at Sherlock, as if he was a pet who had been ill and now was fixed thanks to a veterinarian.

"Actually," John said coolly, "Sherlock's going to stay with me for a bit, until he's back on his feet." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but nodded slowly and stepped out of their way. John led Sherlock outside, where they both ignored the black town car with the woman still inside in favor of a cab John managed to summon.

They climbed into the backseat, and Sherlock stayed close to John, folding in on himself the moment the door closed between them and the real world. John held him close, and pressed a kiss to his curls. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock made a small sound but otherwise acted as if John hadn't spoken, instead he raised his head and pressed their lips together softly. John pulled back, uncertain, but Sherlock spoke.  
"John, please, I- I need to feel _something_. I feel so empty, John. Make it go away," Sherlock said, and John had no power to deny him any request when he looked and sounded so broken. So he lowered his lips down to meet Sherlock's, and pressed gentle healing kisses across the boy's face when their lips parted. All too soon they arrived at John's home, and only minutes later, John had Sherlock wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in his hand while John went downstairs to explain why a broken boy was going to be staying with them awhile to his mother.


	11. Making Out

When John came back from talking to his mum –"Of course he can stay, Johnny, however long he needs to!"- Sherlock was still curled atop John's bed, the now-empty teacup sitting on John's nightstand while Sherlock sat with his arms locked tight about his chest, his fingers idly stroking the cotton of the pajamas John had once again lent him. Even from the doorway John could see that Sherlock was shaking, and was trying to hold himself together. John crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, giving Sherlock space if he wanted it. But the moment John sat next to him, Sherlock shifted until his head was resting in John's lap with his body curled up tight. John tentatively ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, and when Sherlock relaxed infinitesimally, John started gently stroking the springy dark brown tangles. After a time, Sherlock dissolved into sleep, his tremors gone, and John moved around a bit until they were both lying down on their sides, Sherlock wrapped securely in John's arms. Sherlock nuzzled closer, pressing his face into John's shoulder with a snuffling noise. John just squeezed him tighter until he too fell asleep.

John woke up to a sudden chill against his front and slight shaking of the bed. He flipped over, too tired to even turn on the light, and squinted in the half-light the open window provided to see what was going on. Sherlock sat at the foot of the bed, huddled and breathing heavily. "Sherlock," John mumbled, voice throaty with sleep. "What are you doing up?"

Sherlock looked up, startled. His eyes were wide and reflective even in the shoddy light, and it was clear they were haunted. "I can't make it _stop_, John," he said, his voice raw and terrified.

"Make what stop?" But Sherlock didn't answer. John crawled across the bed until he was directly in front of the dark-haired boy. "What won't stop, Sherlock?"

"It _hurts_, John, and I _can't make it stop_," Sherlock gasped out, like he was physically injured and it was difficult to breathe. John's eyes widened in fear. His first instinct was to wrap Sherlock close as he had on the roof, but every inch of Sherlock screamed _tension_ and John knew better than to try to cage him in. But then Sherlock launched himself at John, knocking them both back onto the mattress. "I just want it to stop," Sherlock whispered, staring down at John intensely before crashing their mouths together.

He was fierce, and wild, and everything John loved about Sherlock, but now it was tinged with a desperation John wasn't used to. It went beyond even Sherlock's usual desire for contact, and well into the realm of need. His mouth was everywhere at once, tasting the planes of John's face, nipping up his neck to suckle underneath his jaw, biting sharply on an earlobe before laving his tongue over the pain. By the time Sherlock made it back to John's lips, John was clutching at him and tugging his hair, the wildness catching.

When Sherlock's lips met John's again, John took control, flipping them so Sherlock was beneath him. Sherlock needed a distraction from the pain, and John was never so happy to be used. Without pausing for permission –knowing it was already freely given- John plunged his tongue to meet with Sherlock's, meeting then darting away, teasing until Sherlock groaned aloud with frustration.

"We've got to be quite, Harry's just next door," John whispered in the small space between their lips. Sherlock gave another, albeit much softer, moan, and bucked up to recapture John's lips. John dodged just slightly, bending down to lick and nibble at that gorgeous neck until Sherlock was gasping and desperate for friction. Without even thinking, John had stripped Sherlock of his sleep shirt, tossing it across the room where it landed with a soft thud. Before Sherlock could strip him down, John kissed down his torso, pausing to nibble at too-bony ribs, and kissing teasingly around his navel, until he reached the waistband of Sherlock's pajama bottoms. Then, he hesitated, looking up the long torso to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Is this alright?" John asked quietly, making it clear that if it wasn't, he would stop, no questions asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Please," he said, in a vulnerable voice. John nodded, carefully tugging down the bottoms so that the pants beneath didn't come with. Once the bottoms were gone, shoved to the foot of the bed, John paused, looking down at the bulge straining the black briefs Sherlock wore. Sherlock started to speak, but then John leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of Sherlock's cloth-covered prick before slowly stripping the briefs down and sending them to sit with the pajamas. John eyed Sherlock hungrily for a moment, taking in the differences between Sherlock's cock and his own. Sherlock's was longer, more slender, and the head was a bit rosier than John's where he could see it peeking through the foreskin.

Then John leaned forward, worshipping gently, pressing damp kisses from root to tip, circling the head with his tongue and popping it between his lips before suddenly taking Sherlock in.

John had only done this a few times before, but to his delight (and the delight of his partners), he possessed next to no gag reflex. It was present, but it was subtle enough John could suppress it with ease. He took Sherlock in until his nose was buried in the dark curls at the base of Sherlock's cock and the head of the boy's cock nudged against the back of his throat, making him groan at the feeling. Sherlock was falling apart beneath him, writhing and gasping, making little cut-off choking noises that had John pressing into the mattress in the hopes of finding some relief.

It only took a few more minutes –and some clever swirling on the part of John's tongue- for Sherlock to completely lose control and come down John's throat with a low moan of John's name. The moment John tasted Sherlock on his tongue, embarrassingly enough, he came in his pants, soaking through the boxers he'd worn to bed and probably leaving a wet spot on the sheets.

Once Sherlock's aftershocks stopped, John carefully let his sensitive cock slip from his mouth. Sherlock instantly tugged John up to kiss him gently. "Let me… you now," Sherlock said, still a bit short of breath. John blushed.

"I ah already came. Next time," John said firmly, trying to hide his embarrassment. It only took Sherlock a moment to catch on.

"You achieved orgasm by simply fellating me?" Sherlock asked in his peculiar way. John ducked his head, wishing he could melt into the mattress. "That…" John braced himself for teasing, "is the single most attractive thing I've ever heard."

And John looked up, just in time for Sherlock to kiss him, this time with none of the desperate pain of earlier, but with simple joy and adoration. John relaxed under the benediction of Sherlock's lips, letting them both settle down and curl around each other once the blankets were drawn up over them.

"I'm going to regret not cleaning up in the morning," John sighed, burrowing closer to Sherlock under the blankets.

"You most certainly are. But I'll make the shower worthwhile," Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms around John's body, moving closer. John smiled; Sherlock was like a miniature heater, keeping the space under the blankets perfectly comfortable. It was going to be terrible trying to get out of bed in the morning.

But that was a problem for the daylight. For now, in the half-light cast by streetlamps more than the moon, John's only problem was how to get closer to Sherlock. And frankly, they were already as close as they could get.

John was starting to feel at home.


End file.
